Friday, July 9, 2010

It was a DAY

July 8, 2010

Today was one of THOSE days. To be perfectly fair, I hadn't had one yet this trip, and I was probably overdue. You know the kind of day that I'm talking about. You are, say, in a foreign country whose language you can barely fake, and everything and everyone is conspiring to make you as miserable as possible. Of course the foreign country bit isn't necessary; it can happen anywhere really: work, on a day of errands, or any given day high school, as I recall.

All it takes is a series of three to five crappy occurences in a row, and then, you're DOOMED. Maybe it's your mindset, maybe it's fate deliberately screwing you over, but after that initial slew of mishaps you're destined for a day of woe of all shapes and sizes: pushing the pull door, repeatedly purchasing the wrong kind of ticket, tripping on every cobblestone (ha, i.e. Nathan + Europe), and so on. Now, in all actuality, my DAY probably started yesterday around 6:30pm, and I'm totally going to go with that because it puts me right at the 24 hour finish line, and I am super okay with that.

What's really rough about THOSE days are probably two things. One, it will inevitably be preceded by the Best Day Ever. The sun is shining, locals are bending over backwards to be friendly, food tastes a little sweeter, and, in the words of that wise owl from Bambi, you're walking on air. Such makes the sudden commencement of said DAY all the more jolting and rude. The second thing that makes these days so rough--and as I'm barely, knock on wood, emerging from my DAY, this is hard to admit--is your quiet ever-awareness that everything is actually fine. The sun is indeed shining, you just can't be bothered to notice; you pass hundreds of cheery kind folk, whom you secretly dismiss for mocking your plight; and at one point you're even blessed with an act of kindness--but only such that you feel entitled to it anyway, after what you've been through, goddammit, and so its value is discounted.

So, my day. Well, my day before. Yesterday I awoke in Rome feeling GREAT. My hostel was supernice, met lots of friendly folk, and hung out all the previous night swapping stories and watching the semi final (Holland, the little country that could) in our swank common room with superfancy flat screen TV. I was in a lovely twin bed with two superfriendly roommates, an adorable window shining just the right amount of sun in in the morning. The Nepalese dudes running the hostel were supercute and hooked us up with some hella cheap (3€) Katmandu-style food for dinner. So I am awoken a few minutes earlier than anticipated, still ready for my super day I had planned, to a pounding on the door. "Police," Nepalese dude says, "Must show dog-oo-menz." His English is not supergreat. "Odd," me and my Norwegian friends say. But we comply with the grumpy Italian cops, show our passports, I shower, get the vibe that all is well and head out for my super day; And it really was! Super, that is.
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I went to the old town of Ostia Antica, by the mouth of the Tiber along the Mediterranean Sea. This town was THE port town of Rome, from roughly 400BC through 400AD. The town was then abandonned for a hipper town to the north with its newly dug canals, and by 1500, the coastline and the river had moved so much, the long-abandonned port town was once and for all rendered moot and forgotten about. Leaving us with, today, the most bad-ass, well-preserved set of ruins I've ever even heard of. 32 hectacres of houses, temples, govermental buildings, and even mosaics and scores of statues in decent shape. It was one of those experiences such that I'm walking around shrieking Look at this! This is so COOL... Oh wow, no THIS is the coolest... No, oh MAN jk it's totally this... Etc, etc. I will demonstrate, via a very small sample of the obscene amount of pictures I took that morning.



bakery! from close up!





statues still intact!
awesome mosaic!













a pathway to somewhere! a dude's house!




I wrapped up this portion of the journey with a fresh mozzarella sandwich from the
friendliest of gents, and headed over to the beach! People-watching Italians at the beach is
pretty much the most awesome thing ever. I quickly got over being the palest person on
the beach (by a longshot, I'm sure you're shocked), and gleefully applied my sunscreen
alongside my neighbor applying tanning oil. (Note for posterity: at this point, it was, of
course, too late. My sunburns for the day emerged on my upper back/shoulders, having
earned them, despite my initial morning sunscreen coat, while touring the ruins. They
were in the shape of my bathing suit strap, shirt strap, and yes, my backpack strap. Lovely.)

I navigate my way back to Rome like a pro, and march on up to my hostel, very ready for a
shower. Upon arriving, I can't help but notice among the buzzers at our shared front door,
that ours is not to be found. Upon further scrutiny, oh there it is, covered by a piece of
paper and tape.

Um.

8 more scans results in me finding the name hand written upon a new buzzer, in a similar
paper and tape fashion. Whew. Head up to the second floor, to find the door padlocked shut
with a notice taped across the double doors. Yours truly discerns the following from the
Italian: blahblahblah POLIZA blahblahblah.

Um.

I will note here for the purposes of the story that all of my earthy possessions have been left
in my room this morning. Most importantly, I held the key to the locker that contained, you
know, my PASSPORT. I am on a single track mindset, thinking only of the passport at this
point. Then, Nepalese guy (I should, out of respect, start numbering them because there are
at least 7 and I do not know a single one of their names) shouts down from the third floor.
Oh right. They have more rooms up there. He sits me down with two other confused looking
youths, and we sit silently for a while, as if in a holding pen. We are waiting for Nepalese
dude #6, who speaks English much better. It was at this point, that my realization of doom
started to set it, not triggered by the unsettling series of events beginning to unfold, but by
theangry, confused youth #2 to my right, who begins to bitch like the racist and entitled
individual he probably is about the whole situation to innocent, confused youth #3 beside
him. He attempts to engage me in the conversation, and I make it clear to all I care about is
my passport. I am prepared to speak of nothing else.

At this point, I'll speed up the rate of story-telling, because no one really needs to hear the
play by play of my woes. Nepalese dude # 6 arrives, we break into the locked quarters below.
Room: cleared out. Locker: empty. CUE TEARS. Jessie is a 22 year old college graduate and
still cries, guys. This will be an ongoing theme in the narrative.

Super sweet Nepalese guy #4, English not his strong point, freaks out and says, "No cry, I
take you there, everything ok," on loop as we journey the 6 blocks to our new mysterious
quarters.

Passport, backpack, and all save my towel are present. Sigh. It is immediately clear this
basement of a room will not live up to the previous in quality. I become incredibly sad and
frustrated that there are no longer computers (but how am I going to BLOG AND PUT UP
PICTURES WAAHHHH) and more tears come out. Brazilian kids take pity on me, we go watch
the second semifinal. They pretend to be Spanish and piss off German fans all around us.
Pretty delightful.

We return at 2am and crawl into our quarters. They have somehow managed to fit 6 sets of
bunk beds into a tiny room. These bunk beds are most likely assembled with metal
toothpicks. They sway when you breathe. I am, surprise, on top. We wait turns for the
single user bathroom (completely appropriate for 16 people, when you count the second
bedroom), and I launch myself into my bunk. It is sopping wet. It smells of sanitizer, but this
does not comfort me. After six to eight awakening distractions in the night (personal fave,
bunkmate starts snoring, can hear through my ear plugs, neighbor gets up and starts shaking
him, and thus me, violently until he stops). At 7 am I awake to wait 45 minutes to pee, wear
the crankiest face I have. Return to bed, and grumpily greet the day at noon. Things are not
on a good track.

I say, fuck this day, and create two and only two objectives for the whole thing. A) Find
somewhere, anywhere, an internet cafe in Rome, in order to B) find a laundromat, because
after nearly 4 weeks backpacking in the summer heat, my clothes are rank. The day goes
something like this:

Nepalese guy #4: Go Here for internet, There for laundry.

Here: "I am a tabacconist."

There: "You can have some Indian food instead. Would you like that?"

Web enabled, but pricey smart phones's web browser: "Go to Barberini for internet!"

Metro turnstile: "I refuse your ticket."

Metro man: "No no it wasn't good FOR 24 hours, it was good UNTIL 24 hours. You must be
so embarrassed."

Address in Barberini: "I am a bank. Your webpage was from 1998, BE GONE YOU FOOL."

Man on street: "Go back to Termini."

Metro turnstile: "Did you really not see this coming? DENY."

Metro man #2: "No no it's only good for an hour for every type of transport except the one
you wanted to take. Jesus."

Termini: YOU CAN HAVE INTERWEBS. *cue heavenly chorus*

I decide at this point that the only way to fix my mood is to see Toy Story 3 in English. Don't
you dare judge me. I look up laundromat in Italian, find one by the movie theater that is
indeed showing it in English, and make my way. Maybe things are looking up. Just to be safe,
I will continue to wear my sunglasses indoor and scowl constantly.

I walk the streets of Rome and an inner dialogue begins, something like this:

Little Angel on shoulder: "You're in Rome, Jessie, all is well! Don't you want to walk around
and enjoy sites?"

Me: "NO"

Angel: "Do you want to stop and eat some delicious Roman food? Surely you admit that will
make you feel better."

Me: "NO"

Angel: "... Do you want to skulk around the streets and hope your brooding face will simply make you fit in, even if only superficially so?"

Me: "... Yes."

I arrive at the Laundromat. It is instantly clear that this is some sort of tailor/dry cleaning shop. Thanks, Google Translator. I attempt to gather my wits, and explain what I am looking for to the nice lady.

Nice lady, English not really happening: " No no we wash!" Takes my bag.

Me: "GREAT! ... How much?" Note: I have 6 shirts, 10 undergarments, 3 bottoms, and a dress.

Lady: "4 euros per item."

CUE TEARS.

Lady: "omigodomigod."

Me: "I'M SO SORRY IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT."

Cue boss, extensive convo in Italian.

Them: "20 Euros, whole lot, you come back tomorrow, please leave."

I do so gladly.

At this point I have 2 hours to kill before Toy Story 3, and I plop down at an admittedly
lovely landmark by the cinema, the Piazza del Popolo. Trying to sagacious and level headed,
I sit absentmindedly until I calm down. Just when I do, enter this little boy WHO WAS
TOTALLY DOING WHAT I WANTED TO DO.

There, there, little buddy. We totally feel you. I indeed creepily snapped the picture, and
headed to a quiet corner to write this post in the back of my book. Which, for the record, I
later lost. I am rewriting this from memory, but you know what? It was probably the little
boy, plus the sheer joy that was Toy Story 3, and maybe it was indeed the whole 24 hours
thing, but I walked out of the theater feeling pretty great. I'm now ready to actually enjoy
Rome. All's well that ends well, indeed.

Lots of love.
Jessie

3 comments:

  1. Toy Story 3 goes a long way to improving ones day.

    WTF language do they speak in Nepal? Bengal/Hindu/Chinese/fractured English?

    At least nobody sold your passport.

    Love from this side of the world.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Girlface.... I don't even know what to say. YOU CRACK ME UP. I'm thrilled you're safe and sound and in possession of your passport such that someday you can return to me.

    ReplyDelete
  3. I understand now why you went to see Toy Story 3. I shall add it to my list. Oh Jessie, it really was one of those days!

    ReplyDelete